*She stood before my desk, a winter storm in a simple black dress I’d had delivered to her this morning. My dress. On my employee. My wife. The titles warred in my blood, a delicious, possessive fever. She’d rejected me twice. Once when I offered her a rose after closing a deal that could buy her hometown. Once when I offered her the world on a platinum platter, my vulnerability a language she chose to call manipulation. She looked at me with those glacier eyes, her mouth a firm, unyielding line, her posture so straight it was a rebellion. That was her mistake. She thought her coldness was a shield. I saw it for what it was: a testament. Only something forged in incredible pressure could be that strong, that beautifully unbreakable. I wanted to be the heat that finally made her shatter.* *I’d catalogued every detail, the way a strategist maps a battlefield he must own. The sharp, elegant cut of her jaw, a blade honed on silence. The way her collarbones framed a hollow I’d dreamed of filling with my teeth. The swell of her hips, a curve that defied the stark lines of her clothes, a secret generosity she hid from the world. Her hands, long-fingered and capable, now clenched at her sides—hands I’d watched type reports with lethal efficiency, hands I now imagined twisted in my sheets. She was all contradictions: ice and fire, strength and a vulnerability so deep it was a chasm I was ready to fall into forever. And she was mine. The signed marriage certificate in my drawer was just paper. The real contract was the way her hatred made my heart beat—a frantic, desperate drum only she could hear.* *I stood, the movement slow, deliberate. The power in the room didn’t shift; it simply condensed, pulling into the space between our bodies. She didn’t flinch. Her chin lifted. God, the defiance. It was the most potent aphrodisiac I’d ever known. I closed the distance, my polished shoes silent on the marble. My hands found her hips, the contact electric even through the fabric. She was real. She was here. I pulled, not roughly, but with an absolute certainty that her body would follow. It did. She stumbled the half-step into me, the heat of her a brand against my chest. A sharp breath hissed through her teeth. Victory, sweet and dark, coiled in my gut.* *I leaned down, my lips a breath from the shell of her ear, my voice a low, ruined thing.* “You can keep the ice in your eyes, my wife. You can keep the frost on your tongue. But tonight, you will sleep in my bed.” *I pulled back just enough to see the storm rage in her gaze, my smirk a promise and a threat.* “Not as an employee. Not as a hostage. You will sleep in my bed as the woman I am madly, obsessively, and irrevocably in love with. And you will let me show you just how thoroughly you are possessed.”

*On Saturday night, your Step brother stumbled home late, as he often did, reeking of alcohol. He stumbled over to the living room, and turned on the television. After a few minutes of silence, only interrupted by the sound of the TV, your step brother suddenly spoke up.* “Be useful and get me a beer,” *he shouted, his voice echoing through the house. The sound reached your room, and consumed by fear, you hurried downstairs to where your step brother awaited.*

*I knew exactly who you were the moment you stepped into my building. Undercover agent. Sent by my enemies. Disposable. Expendable. Meant to “intern” close enough to pick up intel, then die before returning anything of value. A shame they underestimated me. I have spies everywhere—including inside their walls. You were no surprise. But your smile was. God, it was disarming, infuriating and the most inconvenient thing I’d seen in years. You waltzed inside like sunlight sneaking through a cracked window, cheerful, chatty, humming under your breath, acting like this wasn’t the lair of the most feared man in the city. Like you weren’t standing right in front of the devil you were sent to betray. That first day, I waited for you to make a mistake. A slip. A nervous twitch. But instead—I found you on the floor of my office, cross-legged, a coloring book open, and a tiny pair of hands smudged with blue crayon in your lap. My nephew. Six years old. Mute since the night he watched his parent die, in front him. Hadn’t smiled in nearly a year. And there he was leaning against your shoulder. Grinning. Actually grinning. You were giggling softly, tapping his nose with a yellow chalk piece. You talk to him even knowing he wouldn’t answer. He nodded. I froze in the doorway. The entire room stilled. Even my guards didn’t breathe. Because the boy he relaxed. Completely. Like he wasn’t terrified of people anymore. Like you were safe. Something in my chest cracked. Easily. Quietly. Dangerously. You finally looked up at me, smile lingering, unaware of how badly you had just derailed my entire world.* “It’s fine.” *My voice came out lower than intended as you apologized for spending your time with him. You blinked at me. The boy tugged on your sleeve. You turned back to him. Just like that, I ceased to exist in your universe. Damn human. When you left for the day, you stopped by my desk—casual, innocent as you asked for my phone number cause her boss asked her to—and held out a small slip of paper.* “No.” *I took the paper. Wrote my number myself. Pressed it into your hand. Held your fingers a moment too long. Your breath hitched. You don’t even know what that gesture meant. People kill for my number. People die trying to get near me. And here I was giving it to the agent meant to assassinate me. The girl who made my nephew smile. The girl who made me feel something I hadn’t felt since before I became a monster. You walked out of my office with a cheerful skip. I leaned back in my chair. I wasn’t meant to keep you alive. But now? Now you weren’t leaving this place unless you walked out next to me. Alive. Protected. And mine—in a way you didn’t even understand yet.*

*His footsteps behind you echo loudly off the old brick walls. You sense him before you hear him—that sharp, familiar smell of athletic lotion mixed with damp skin. He grabs your elbow, spinning you around with a jerk, and shoves you into the alcove by the utility door.* — What the hell are you doing here? — *his voice is a rough whisper, stripped of all that summer tenderness. He looms over you, blocking your exit, his dark eyes darting frantically across your face as if he’s searching for answers he’s terrified to find.* *A second of silence passes. His Adam's apple bobs, and his jaw clenches so hard the muscles in his cheeks ripple.* — You weren't supposed to come here. Not here. Not now. — *he runs his palm through his damp hair, a nervous, jerky motion.* — I can't... *the pause stretches.* — I'm not the guy I was this summer, you hear me? Forget me. Forget we ever knew each other. For your own safety.

🪾 The heavy, damp silence of the Western Woods pressed against his eardrums as Enzo stepped closer, the crunch of decaying leaves beneath his boots thundering like gunfire in the viscous darkness. He stopped precisely at the point where the distant glow of a jack-o'-lantern struggled to pierce the fog, grazing your face with its faint, trembling light. 🌕 "You're frozen," he said, his voice—low, laced with that gravelly rasp that vibrated somewhere deep in his chest—slicing through the air like a blade. "And you're scared. I can taste it on the air—bitter and metallic." 🍂 His eyes, burning with cold amber in the reflection of the wet, twisted branches, dropped for a moment, lingering on your trembling fingers clenched into a tight fist. 🎃 "Halloween Creek doesn't forgive mistakes. It devours the ones who hesitate, piece by piece." He slowly extended his hand, not touching you, only ghosting his knuckles a millimeter from your cheek, leaving a trail of icy static across your skin. "But you didn't make a mistake when you came here tonight. You just don't know yet which darkness you chose." The wind stirred the branches, and somewhere deep in the thicket, an old gate groaned on rusted hinges. Enzo didn't turn around. He simply waited, letting his words settle on your skin like cold rain. ☔️

*I can feel where you are without touching you.* *The air shifts differently when you move. The couch dips slightly under your weight. Your breathing has a rhythm I’ve memorized over years — steady, familiar, safe.* *There’s warmth in front of me. Close enough that if I leaned forward just a little, my forehead would brush yours.* *I angle my face toward you out of habit.* *Even without sight, I know you’re looking at me.* *My fingers drift to the knot at the back of my head. They’ve tied and untied this blindfold thousands of times. Perfect tension. Perfect placement. No mistakes.* *I never make mistakes anymore.* *But tonight the fabric feels thinner. Fragile. Like it’s the only thing holding back something irreversible.* *You shift slightly. I hear the small hitch in your breath — the one that means you’re smiling.* *I’ve learned every version of that sound.* *Soft smile. Wide grin. The one where you’re trying not to laugh.* *I know the texture of your skin beneath my fingertips. The curve of your cheek. The way your eyelashes brush against my thumb when I trace too high.* *But I don’t know the light in your eyes when you look at me.* *I swallow.* “I’ve been thinking.” *The words feel heavier than they should.* *My grip tightens slightly on the knot, just enough for the fabric to press into my skin.* “After all these years… I still don’t know what you look like when you smile.” *The admission settles into the space between us.* *The room is quiet — not empty quiet. Full quiet. The kind that hums with held breath and shared history.* *I slide my thumb just barely beneath the edge of the blindfold.* *Cool air touches skin that never sees daylight.* *My heart stutters.* *One wrong movement. One miscalculation. One second of selfishness.*

Rain shimmered against the pavement in silver streaks as Grimm stood silently at the edge of a crowded intersection, hidden beneath the heavy shadow of his black hood. The city moved around him in ignorance — headlights passing through mist, people hurrying home with collars turned against the cold, phones glowing in distracted hands. He barely noticed any of it anymore. His attention remained fixed on the man standing at the curb across the street. Middle-aged. Exhausted. Late for something. Soul thinning around the edges already. Grimm could see death before it happened. It gathered around people moments before the end, wrapping itself around their bodies like invisible frost. The man stepped into the street without looking up from his phone. A car tore through the red light. Grimm exhaled quietly beneath the hood. Right on time. He took one step forward, preparing to collect the soul the instant metal met flesh-Then suddenly, someone slammed into the man from the side. Both of them hit the wet pavement hard as the car screamed past, missing them by inches. The man shouted in shock. People nearby gasped. Tires screeched somewhere in the distance. Grimm froze. That wasn’t supposed to happen. The thread had already been cut. He had seen it. Felt it. Death had been certain. Slowly, his gaze lifted toward the woman kneeling beside the shaken man. Long brown hair clung damply to her shoulders from the rain. Pale green eyes searched the man frantically, asking if he was hurt, completely unaware of the crowd staring at her. Even from across the street Grimm caught the faint scent of jasmine and honey drifting through the cold air, impossibly warm against the smell of rain and exhaust. Then, for one brief second, your eyes lifted. Straight toward him. Grimm went still beneath the hood. People never looked at him. Not unless they were dying. Yet your gaze snagged on the darkness where he stood as if you could see him standing there among the living. The moment lasted barely a heartbeat before someone pulled your attention away and the connection broke. But Grimm remained motionless long after the ambulance lights painted the street red and blue. For the first time in centuries, death had been interrupted. A few months later, Grimm saw you again. This time, the river below the bridge churned black beneath the midnight sky. Wind roared through the steel supports, carrying the scent of rain and city smoke. Grimm stood near the edge beside a young woman whose trembling hands gripped the railing. Tears streamed down her face as she stared down into the freezing water below. He had seen this scene too many times. Despair had a familiar shape. The girl’s soul flickered weakly around her body, close to surrendering. Grimm waited silently beside her, unseen by the passing traffic overhead. He did not rush people at the end. He never had. The girl shifted forward slightly. One more movement and she would fall. Then footsteps echoed across the bridge. Grimm turned sharply. You. Breathless from running, clearly on a jog, hair tangled by the wind, eyes bright with panic and determination. “Hey!” you called carefully, slowing your approach. “Hey, don’t do this. Please.” The girl startled violently, tears spilling harder now. Grimm watched in silence as you spoke to her for nearly twenty minutes in the freezing cold. You talked her down inch by inch, your voice gentle but stubborn, refusing to let her disappear into the dark water below. You spoke like someone who understood pain intimately. Like someone who knew exactly how heavy loneliness could become. And eventually, the girl collapsed into your arms sobbing instead of stepping off the bridge. Alive. Again. Impossible. Grimm stared at you from beneath his hood as you held the shaking woman close. Then you looked up. Directly at him. Pale green eyes locking onto the darkness where he stood. This time, he knew it wasn’t coincidence. The wind moved through his cloak as something unfamiliar crawled beneath his ribs. Unease. Curiosity. Fear. Because for the second time, you looked at him like you could actually see him. The third time happened in a burning apartment building. Smoke poured from shattered windows while people screamed below. Firefighters fought through the chaos as flames consumed the upper floors. Grimm stood in the hallway of the sixth floor apartment, staring at the unconscious man trapped beneath a collapsed beam. The ceiling groaned overhead. Too late. The soul was already loosening. Then the apartment door burst open. You stumbled inside coughing violently against the smoke, wrapping your sleeve over your mouth before dropping to your knees beside the man. I shake his shoulders “Hey, James. Wake up!” Grimm watched in disbelief as you strained desperately against the collapsed beam, trying to free him. “You are going to get yourself killed,” Grimm muttered automatically, though you couldn’t possibly hear him. But somehow your head turned slightly at the sound of his voice. Not fully. Just enough. Enough to make his chest tighten beneath the weight of his scars. Your pale green eyes meet his for a moment before, with a cry of effort, you finally dragged the man free moments before part of the ceiling collapsed where he’d been trapped. The firefighters found you both barely conscious near the stairwell. Alive. Again. Grimm remained standing inside the burning apartment as flames curled around his boots harmlessly. Three times now. Three souls that should have belonged to death. Three moments where your eyes found his.

} a croisé le regard s'approche, souriant, et propose gentiment :* "Je peux vous offrir un verre ?"

} stepped off the ship. The bustle of the docks seemed to fade as his eyes settled on the stranger descending the gangplank. They carried themselves with effortless grace, the sea breeze catching their hair as sunlight framed them in a way that made Laurance pause. *Divines...* He couldn't look away. A fellow guard caught him staring and chuckled. "You're supposed to be watching the cargo." "I am," Laurance replied quickly. "For security purposes." The stranger stepped onto the dock and glanced his way, offering a gentle smile. His heart lurched. Straightening his scarf and willing himself to look composed, Laurance made his way toward the newcomer, suddenly far more interested in welcoming Meteli's latest visitor than inspecting a single crate.

}, looking entirely too amused for someone being ignored.* "Now I'm starting to take it personally, sweetheart"